


private execution

by mumagi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Even more unpleasant love interest, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Massively unpleasant narrator, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, The most pretentious metal lyrics you have ever heard, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27420058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumagi/pseuds/mumagi
Summary: “You figure these things out when you die. Lotta time to think, yeah? It would do you some good.” He winks. “Not that that I want to see you kick it or anything.”“I do not believe you.”Sylvain’s brows raise. “Seriously? You’d think you’d want to believe me on this one.”Sylvain is a liar. Sylvain has always been so massively insincere that whenever Dimitri talked to him he felt like hunkering down and scrubbing his skin until it bled. The people he bragged about bedding- he wonders how their flesh did not simply peel off at his touch.--Sylvain dies. Dimitri chokes on the ashes.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	private execution

**Author's Note:**

> I started this thing back in July and gave up about 3/4 of the way through (falling into a very deep soulsborne hole has nothing to do with that), but now that confinement in france has started again I decided to finish the last few scenes and throw it out there, much like one would toss a puppy in a cardboard box out onto the streets. Because of that it might not be up to snuff, but i really hated looking at this thing stagnate in my docs. 
> 
> Also; writing Dimitri is really, really fucking hard, because he is both extremely edgy and extremely pretentious at the same time.

He knows the sounds of death. Annette’s shriek is distinctive and pulls out of her like a mouse in a trap. Mercedes muffles a cry with her fist. The Imperial soldier caving under his fists chokes on the blood in his teeth. He falls silent seconds later, though he knows well that the cries are not for him. Dimitri stands and turns towards the source of the chaos. 

Annette buries her face in Mercedes’ shoulder, who clutches her hand tightly in return. The front of her pale skirt is awash with blood that stains the hem and coats her gloves. She is a healer. It is not abnormal. They seem to be fond of pulling the victims close and laying their mangled bodies across their laps, for whatever purpose that serves. Behind them, Felix stands perfectly still. Felix, who seems to have a perpetual need to tap at his knuckles or bounce his leg. Dimitri shifts his gaze downward. 

Sylvain lies in a crimson heap on the muddy floor of the field. His war horse nuzzles at him in a feeble attempt to prop him up. The pallor of his skin and white flash of bone peeking through sickly red speaks for itself. Behind him, Ingrid stumbles to rush off her pegasus, but stops at the sight. 

“Is he dead?” her voice cracks at the end. Mercedes’ silence is an answer in and of itself. 

Dimitri turns. To mourn would be a waste of time. Enbarr is a half country away. Sylvain was more an acquaintance to him at best and a nuisance at worst. A loss, yes, but Dimitri is no stranger to such things. 

“-bring his body back on the supply train, I suppose” Byleth says hoarsely. Beside him Dedue nods, a shadow thrown over his face. “We did prepare for this sort of thing.” 

What, are they preoccupied with the funeral now? A month spent simply keening for the dead? He has promised enough to them. Their demands are blood on his teeth.

“Leave it” he commands, loud enough for them all to hear. Felix whips around. Byleth stares quizzically. 

“What?” 

“Leave the body. There is no point in bringing it back.”

Ingrid glares at him, brow furrowed. “We can’t just leave him here.” 

The other soldiers did not receive the luxury of a private service. Mass pyres or mass graves. If he were to be eaten by the ravens the result would be the same. Glenn's body never returned. 

“Are you kidding me?” Felix growls. “Is that all you have to say?” 

“Felix, please don’t do this now” Byleth warns, an almost pleading edge to his voice. Felix ignores the warning and stalks forward, hand resting at the hilt of his sword. 

“Don’t bother defending it. An animal like him doesn’t deserve it.”

“Felix-!” Ingrid goes to stop him. Byleth holds her back with a gentle lift of his hand. 

“Felix, stop. You’ll only make this worse. Would you have us bury Dimitri too?”

It is a testament to the authority Byleth holds that he was able to hold Felix back by the scruff with a scant few words. Dimitri would have taken whatever blows Felix had for him, relished in the noise it makes when he cracks his teeth. Felix is no liar, and that is perhaps the only thing Dimitri can say for certain about him. 

He sheathes his sword and does his best to not look like a hound cowing to its master. Byleth steps forward and looks Dimitri in the eye. 

“We are going to bring the body back. You wouldn’t want to answer to the Margrave, would you?” 

“That does not concern me.” Nobility be damned. He had not sent so much as a single knight in defense of the Kingdom and chose to rot in contentment at the border. His son can follow the same fate for all he cares. 

“Yes, it does. Just-” he sags, rubbing his temples. “You are a king, Dimitri. Don’t forget that.” 

The progression to the monastery carries more of the air of a funeral march rather than a band of knights on the return. His father was paraded through the streets of Fhirdhiad. The coffin was as ornate as his throne. He always thought it a shame that such artistry would be wasted on a man who would never enjoy it. He rode behind in a carriage, hearing every cry and shout the citizens made. He had to chip his teeth on his sorrow and keep silent. 

The others keep their distance and do not look him in the eye. For that, he is glad. 

They arrive after a few hours’ march at least, he supposes. Time flits and breaks around him like water and stone. He is trailing after the chain of wagons. If he looks up ahead he can see Sylvain’s body, positioned like a torn ragdoll that jumps slightly with every bump in the road. Someone thought to pull a rough blanket over him. Dimitri’s fingers curl in on themselves.

The monastery comes into sight within- however long, he does not know. He does not care. The others squabble like birds as they near the gate, deliberations and arguments over what to do with the body curled up in the back of a wagon,

Dimitri is pointedly excluded. He does not mind. He made his position very clear. 

“There is an empty plot in the graveyard,” Mercedes says, a mournful toll caught in her throat. “He liked this place, I think. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s custom for a knight's body to be sent home no matter where they fell” Ingrid argues. “Especially for nobility.” 

No luxury for the rest. Ornate coffins, mass graves. Trimmed with gold. Carved from bone. Hell affords nothing for man. 

Felix doesn’t look up. He has been keeping his distance from him since morning, fists curled as if he would not be able to control himself should he come within six feet of Dimitri. “If we keep it here the Margrave will probably come to dig it up himself.” 

“Ah, I suppose that is true…” 

_ no you can’t you have to stop you have to have to stop them no no no NO- _

Luxury carriage. Chipped gold. His father sits across from him and falls onto his pyre. Personal hell of his own creation. Gautier is far too cold to bury anything, much less a body. Dimitri turns and leaves. No one stops him. 

The Church of Seiros favours bleeding opulence for every structure it possesses. The cathedral defines it in every term. The day is late enough that the sun burns red through the stained glass and renders the holy figures unintelligible. Fhirdiad has a grand cathedral of its own, with the Western Church’s own brand of random excess. Terribly garish, and an utter waste of time and riches for mere buildings. 

His legs sag as he tracks across cold marble. Dimitri bites back a growl of annoyance. His body does not listen to him on the best of days. Any further betrayal would have long been forthcoming. Flesh will succumb to its own desires given time. The cold stone of the pillar greets the back of his neck as his body collapses on its own. A horse crawling a wasteland, a leper on his last legs. He could not force his eye open if he tried.

“Nice of you to ship the body off to my father. I’d love to see the look on his face.”

Marble carries sound better than anything. There was not a single footstep to be heard. The voice is familiar to the point that it strains his ears.

“It’s really a shame I’m stuck here. Can you imagine?”

He catches a glimpse of dark leather boots and maroon pants before his body succumbs to darkness. 

* * *

The sun bleeds into his eye as he wakes. He squints at his surroundings. A silhouette etches itself in black through the light. Byleth, most likely. No one else would be foolish enough to approach him.

“Go away” he growls. Sleep catches at his voice and stumbles in his throat. 

“Charming as ever” he chuckles. “The floor wouldn’t be my first choice to sleep on, but hey, to each his own.” 

Dimitri has never known Byleth to so much as smile in the year and a half he has known him. He has never had a propensity for making jokes either. Dimitri looks up, and recoils at the smirking face of Sylvain above him. 

His father is as frail as a shadow when he appears. His step-mother shifts with a turn of his head. Sylvain stands solid on the floor of the cathedral, as tangible as the bite of stone at the back of his neck. The last he saw him was crumpled in a bloody heap in the back of a supply wagon and yet here he is, with an aggravating pull at the corners of his lips. 

“Why are you here,” he says flatly. 

Sylvain pouts. “I thought you would be a little more happy to see me. I did die just yesterday.” 

Ghosts clawing at his skin and clinging to his eyes. And he expects Dimitri to be  _ happy _ to see him. 

“Even in death you remain a fool.” 

“Was it too much to expect a warm welcome? I suppose that’s on me.” 

Dimitri stands and glowers down at him. There is nothing about him to suggest that not a day ago he had nearly been torn in half. No ghostly pallor of his skin, nor any gaping wounds. He is more alive now than Dimitri has ever been. 

“Are you expecting salvation from me as well?” 

“Salvation, huh?” he repeats slowly. “For a guy like me? I’m flattered, but no thanks.” 

“So you are simply here to be a nuisance.” 

“You’re always so quick to jump to conclusions. Not exactly a trait to fawn over, I gotta say.” 

“Then why are you here?” Sylvain is not the type to beg for revenge like the rest of his ghosts. Dead or not, he is seemingly as lazy as he was when he was alive; complaining about anything that didn’t involve chasing after women and hardly lifting a finger in training. His exaggerated pout when they were assigned to clean the stables, and Dimitri would huff and hide a smile before- 

Sylvain’s gaze drills into him, a strange yellowing hue in the light of the glass. 

“What, with you now or just in general?” His smile is a sorrowful one, straining at his face like it weighs him down. “I couldn’t tell you.” 

“Cannot, or will not?” 

“I suppose we’ll find out. Lotta time to spend together, right?” 

“I have far more important things to do than cater to your whims.” Sylvain barks a laugh at that. Dimitri turns and heads towards the gate. “Spare me your presence.” 

“Alright, hard to get. I can appreciate that.” Judging by the sound he has stayed put. But what would he know, when the soles of his boots are not truly there? Marble does not broadcast the steps of ghosts. Betrayal on all sides. 

“Just a heads up,” he calls. “You missed the send-off of my body, so don’t blame me if Felix maims you.” 

Even on the bridge, his laughter echoes in his ears. 

* * *

Byleth approaches him, because he is the only one without the proper apprehension to keep himself safe. He is a fool, Dimitri thinks. His throat is thin enough that he would be able to snap it with one hand. Red blurs at the corner of his vision. All of them, fools. 

Byleth looks haggard, for lack of a better word. Hair unkempt, shoulders slumped, and an aura of melancholia that clings to his coat sleeves as he walks. Sylvain was a nuisance more than anything else, yet here the man who played damage control for the year is mourning like any other human being. 

“You missed it,” he says in his usual stale way. Dimitri knows what he is implying and could almost be grateful that he is such a man of few words. If he ever felt things like gratitude. 

_ happy to see me? _

loud enough to think that Sylvain was at his ear, but no. He comes and he goes, just like all the others. Toying with him as a whim. One more corpse stacked the pile. More trinkets to swallow. 

“That is no matter that concerns me.” 

“The least you could do is pretend to mourn” he sighs. “He was your friend, was he not?” 

Was he? Once, maybe, when Dimitri was young and wholly untouched by evil, before the rot pulled at his eyes and crucified him where he stood. Sylvain was different. Unrefined steel. When he was young, because  _ Sylvain was _ is now his constant. He remembers when he would visit for whatever reason, and Dimitri would be doing his schoolwork while Sylvain leered over his shoulder and prodded him into place, rubbing his knuckles on his head and saying  _ ‘Write on the lines, dammit. Think of the poor bastard who has to read this’  _ before Dimitri would swat him away.

“Were we?” Dimitri turns to face him. Sylvain’s eyes are bright and his mouth is shut in his awful smile. Death grants serenity to the biggest of fools, it seems. 

Byleth’s eyes furrow, and that is the most he acknowledges him. He has tact as well. Dimitri should tear the crown straight off his head and feed Byleth the remains. Serve his body in the dining hall next. The looks they give him recently as he stalks the grounds, certainly they wouldn’t mind. 

“You don’t seem to care.” 

_ (expect a warm welcome- betrayal on all sides, in his ears, face, eyes. coffins for tinder. leave them in the streets. mercedes had to stitch him up because he needed to be presentable. leaves the needle in his flesh.) _

  
  


“That is not your place to judge.” 

Byleth pinches the bridge of his nose, other hand resting in the crook of his elbow as if he barely had the strength to keep it up. “Morale is at its lowest, Dimitri. They see you treat the death of a general like that, they don’t know what to think.”

“So long as they fight, it is not my concern.” Faerghus is a curse. Faerghus is a snake devouring its tail. Curse them all, their children too. Damn the lot to hell. 

“They need their king.”

“What more do they want?” he growls. “I am here, am I not? Am I supposed to weep for every loss? Serve them on hand and knee? I have larger concerns than that.”

Death is a constant. Death is the cloak on his back. Byleth should know this, mercenary raised and choking on the sword at his hip. He does not have the luxury. A king does not mourn every fallen soldier and hand out fistfuls of flesh to the beggars. 

“Alright. ” Byleth sags. “Alright. I wouldn’t be able to say a thing to convince you otherwise.” 

“No you would not. Now leave.”

One final long-suffering sigh marks Byleth’s departure. Dimitri does not care enough to watch him go. Sylvain dangles a leg off the altar and watches with a smirk. 

“Charming as ever. Say, how ‘bout we go down to the tavern and you can put those moves to good use?”

Dimitri does not need this, now nor ever, Sylvains voice chips at his ears. “Are you ever quiet?”

“A good fuck would probably help, I’m just saying.” 

Here he is, scattering his blood on the altar like he owns the thing, suggesting that if Dimitri sticks his cock in something everything will burn away. Has his mind been so addled by his relentless pursuit of pleasure that this is all he can speak of now? Even in death, he thinks. Even in death.

_ Your handwriting is atrocious. C’mon, are you doing this on purpose? _

_ What’s it matter? You can read it, can’t you? _

_ That’s not the point. My tutor would have my hide if he caught me acting like this. You’re a prince. Write like it. _

“Hey, I’m not mad. You know me, I’d ditch too” he shrugs, foot bumping against the relief set in stone. Sothis and her Saints. His heel scuffs the face of Macuil and leaves red streaks. All this talk of death, reverence,  _ salvation _ , does he expect him to kneel down and lap at the blood? Kiss his hand in some strange reversal? 

Cichol painted in scarlet. Indech weeps a shade darker than his hair. 

“Yeah, sure, Felix will want to run you through and Ingrid probably won’t look you in the eye, but who cares?” He cocks his head. “Run you through more than usual, I mean. He really only started hating you after I bit it.” 

“And you would know that how?”

“You figure these things out when you die. Lotta time to think, yeah? It would do you some good.” He winks. “Not that that I want to see you kick it or anything.”

“I do not believe you.”

Sylvain’s brows raise. “Seriously? You’d think you’d want to believe me on this one.”

Sylvain is a liar. Sylvain has always been so massively insincere that whenever Dimitri talked to him he felt like hunkering down and scrubbing his skin until it bled. The people he bragged about bedding- he wonders how their flesh did not simply peel off at his touch. 

“You hate me,” Dimitri growls, because he can tell so plain and clear on his face. Sylvain looks at him like the shit under his boot, just like all the others. “Do not lie.”

“Alright, alright, got me there.” He raises his hands and shrugs, a slow smile creeping across his face. Have his eyes always been such an awful shade of yellow? “This is a surprise. You were always awful at reading people.”

_ (hazel, he thinks. bronze, copper. stained wood. the cover of his favourite book. sunlight through an old bottle) _

“I do,” he says then, deathly serious. “I really do.”

* * *

He sees him as he takes his route through the monastery grounds. He is a butterfly fluttering against a corkboard. He is in the classroom with its broken desk and books burned beyond recognition, lingering at the edge of the dock with a lack of reflection. The pin slides clean through, and Sylvain leads him on the rest of his chase.

Ashe glares at him in the courtyard of the dormitories. Annette turns away. Marianne rests a hand on her shoulder and averts her gaze. Dorothea falls silent as he passes. Sylvain flits up the stairs like the edge of a shadow. Dimitri ignores them all, and follows in turn.

He catches him at the end of the hall. He knows those doors, that particular corner where the dust would pile, the window warped from neglect. Sylvain slips through the doors on the opposite side without opening them. 

The hinges protest as Dimitri pushes in, doors  _ thwack _ ing against the wall. Sylvain is not distburbed at the sound. He stands in the middle of the room, a motionless obelisk in the centre of where he once slept. The room is spartan, Dimitri notes with some surprise, the film of dust insisting that nothing had been touched in some time. 

Strange. Every impression Sylvain made would suggest that he would not be the type to be concerned with the state of his rooms, and yet everything is tucked away in its place. A lack of personality. He would think the room had been abandoned for far more than a mere week. 

“I don’t sleep anymore,” he says, almost sounding wistful. “It’s strange.”

The dust prickles at Dimitri’s skin. He does not dare open his mouth for fear that it might choke him. 

Sylvain continues. “You just lose track of time, or at least that’s the best I can describe it. I’m never tired or anything. Shame, really. I liked this bed.” 

“Do you spend all moments of lucidity biting at my heels?”

He laughs. “Goddess, no. I can wander off a bit if I want. Not too far for whatever reason. I’m no expert on this stuff.” 

Dimitri is not either. Perhaps if he were he would be allowed a moment's peace with no resistance. But if it is not Sylvain tormenting him with that detestable smirk it is his father or Glenn tearing at his cloak. 

“I’m glad no one came in here and tramped around. Drives me fucking nuts when people mess up my stuff.”

“I cannot imagine you being too concerned with cleanliness.”

“Smart talk coming from a man who hasn’t taken a proper bath in a week.”

Dimitri narrows his eye. Sylvain is not frightened in the least, and Dimitri considers the logistics of biting out his tongue. 

“My brother was the real messy sort, always leaving his shit strewn around for the servants to pick up. Mostly because it got on our father’s nerves, him always going on about keeping a good image and all that.” 

Dimitri did not know of his brother, neither had he ever truly seen him. Dimitri had not travelled to Gautier often, as it was far too dangerous, and the brother was never seen during trips to the capital. 

_ The children of Gautier are like wolves, _ his tutor said once. It was likely that he was simply grumbling an aside, but Dimitri had keen ears as a child.  _ Best to keep away from them. _

Sylvain swipes a finger along his desk, pouting at the dust that coats the fragile wood. His movements leave no tracks in it. Curious. No ghost of his has ever been so self aware. 

The sheets do not dent so much an inch as Sylvain sinks down, leaning back and testing his weight as if he expects it to collapse. “I kept the Lance of Ruin there,” he nods to a corner. Dimitri follows his gaze. He could easily imagine the weapon resting against the side of the wardrobe, slim bone and crimson watching him sleep with the posture of a knight. 

“That was foolish of you. It would be a simple matter to steal it.”

“Who would?” he laughs. It resembles something like a rictus grin in the dull light. “They’d know what’d happen to them if they did. The rumour mill is quick, believe me.” 

Dimitri cannot judge any further. It is not as if he has his relic at his side to make comparisons. The last he saw of Areadbhar was during some asinine ceremony his father took part in when Dimitri was twelve, a regal weapon that lit like a bonfire in his father’s hands. He promised to one day let him hold it,  _ When you’re bigger, Dimitri. I’m afraid you’d just topple over now! _

The Lance of Ruin, in contrast, was a wretched thing that shuddered in Sylvain’s hands like a dying beetle. How a family could take pride in such an ugly relic was beyond him. 

Judging by Sylvain’s tone when he speaks of it though, he is not too overly fond of the thing either. 

“Where is it?”

Sylvain leans back, spreading his legs. “Shipped off to my father. I’m sure the old man is more upset to see the thing in pieces than to see me.”

“You were his heir” Dimitri tests. Sylvain lies back and chuckles. 

“Yeah, funny that. He killed off the other one too.” He laughs more, a hysterical note hanging in the air. “I’ve really put him in the corner, haven’t I?! Lucky me! Think he’ll run off to the nearest village and grab some poor girl to pump out another kid?” 

Dimitri shifts closer, knees pressing in at the edge of the mattress. Sylvain’s inner thigh bumps against his as he laughs, the touch no more consequential than the draft brushing in through the window. His smile pulls at his face. Dimitri would think he was some sort of strange, leathery construct rather than, well-

Not human, no. He is no more human than Dimitri is. He thinks that is the only thing they will ever have in common. 

Sylvain’s eyes snap up and his laughter stops. His eyes pierce through him and to the door behind. His expression flakes like old paint as Dimitri follows his gaze.

Felix stands in the doorway, a mountain lion disturbed by the crack of a branch. Dimitri knows the taste of hatred well by now. Felix is the stain on his palms. Sylvain furrows his brows in a practice at sorrow. 

“How dare you” he snarls, eyes ablaze. “Finally pretending to mourn?”

“Felix.”

“Get out.” 

Dimitri towers over him even from a distance. Felix pays no mind. It was always one of the traits of his that Dimitri admired, to remain steadfastly unswayed. “You have no say over what I-”

“Get the hell out of his room.” 

He looks back at Sylvain. “Well?” he says softly. “Shall I remove myself from your presence?” 

Felix answers for him. “You don’t blink an eye when he is killed, yet you have the audacity to stand here and act like you care?” 

Dimitri cannot say that he is wrong. He cannot say that he simply drew in here in an attempt to crush a bug. He does not have so little dignity to throw his flesh at Felix’s feet. Felix would hate him more if he did. Sylvain sits and stares, useless. 

Felix stalks in further, drawing the sword at his hip in one fluid motion. How lovely a thing to see in his last moments. Felix hates him enough to kill him. Dimitri will roll over like a dog at Sylvain’s feet and let them both take their prize. 

“Byleth isn’t here to stop me” he presses his sword against Dimitri’s neck. He tilts his neck and relishes in the warm path carved by a few stray beads of blood. “I’ll liberate your head from your body once and for all.” 

“Go on, then,” he breathes. Felix’s hand shakes. The blade cuts deeper. He wonders what Sylvain’s face looks like, if he’s elated at the prospect of Dimitri being put down for good or horrified at the slaughter about to take place in his room. He’d wager bets on the former if he was the type to do so. 

Felix’s eyes flick to the side. A single chess piece lies askew on the desk. 

The cut goes no deeper than a centimetre in the left of his neck before the blade lowers. Felix exits as swiftly as he drew his blade. His parting is a hot needle. Dimitri’s legs are kind enough to lower him to the ground.

Sylvain settles in his vision, neither elated nor horrified. If he was human Dimitri might call his expression concern.

“You could have pushed him back, you know. Try and save your life, that sort of thing.” He smiles. “Now there’s blood on my carpet.” 

The edge of the bed digs into his neck as he turns his head. “Are you truly that concerned?”

“It isn’t exactly my room anymore, but yeah, a little.” 

“You want to see me dead” Dimitri mutters. The blood sticks in between the gap between cloth and skin. They cut away the clothing of burnt bodies, and the fibres fuse with flesh. 

“Aw, come on. Those are some pretty lofty words you’ve put in my mouth.” 

“You hate me.”

He shakes his head. Dimitri is aptly reminded of his tutor chiding him for an uncouth question. “Doesn’t mean I want you dead. You’re the leader of the Kingdom. I feel it would do more harm than good to see you kick the bucket in an old dorm room.” 

Dimitri stills as Sylvain reaches to his neck. He imagines his thumb resting against the cut, for lack of any sensation. He could easily gouge through and pick out the veins if he desires. Dimitri welcomes retribution like a priest tastes providence. If it is not Felix to be the one who will deliver him, then it is the hands of the dead to drag him down. 

“I’m starting to think that you’d like to die” he says, and brings his thumb to his mouth. 

* * *

Fhirdiad runs red. The ground bulges up at the fringes of the streets, devouring crossroads and paths in its wake. Magic-lit lamps sputter on vicious angles in blue contrast with the yellow sky. Fhirdiad was always such a grey city. A little colour does it well.

The body gasps and writhes at his feet. Dimitri’s grip on his axe is firm as the flesh gives way beneath it. Skinned to the bone, all of them. Death is a liberty to be granted at this point, a single thread between agony and relief. The bodies pile at the stairs and clog the alleys. He tore a chasm between the cathedral and the castle, spires rising high above his head. The clock tower groans. 

His boots leave red tracks up the white stairs, splotches burning in his vision. His castle is above, beyond the gates and eaves and-

“Why are you always like this?” a voice sighs. Dimitri’s grip hardens. 

Sylvain slumps between iron fence and stone, his torso split down like a particularly messy egg. Red against white. He doesn’t even look too uncomfortable, lounging in the crook of the street like he had simply been waiting for Dimitri to pass by, a beggar tugging at the hems of the nobles. 

He hates it when Sylvain shows up in his dreams. It means he will remember them. 

“Couldn’t you have a wet dream like any other guy your age? You really aren’t any fun.” 

“Could you stay out of my business?”

“I don’t want to be here, believe me” he chuckles, despite the blood in his mouth. It matches his hair quite well, dangerous and sharp all at once. “Not that I have a lot going on, but this really wasn’t on my to-do list.” 

“You always claim you have no say in how you appear, yet you always manage to inconvenience me terribly.” 

“Sorry about that.” Sylvain does not sound apologetic in the slightest. “Really.” 

He stands, his entrails hanging down at his waist like a mockery of some strange belt. Blood strains down one leg and pours on the ground. His eyes narrow at the bodies strewn at the steps, the toppled carriages and burning horses, the red tasset around one body and the cape around another.

“Imperials?”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Not all of them.” 

“There’s so many” he murmurs, looking out. Fhirdiad is a map of nerves spread out from the vantage point of the stairs, blood red and twisted blacks coalescing on white stone. The sky captures it all in a rotten painting. “Is this all…?” 

“Yes.” In truth, he does not know how many have fallen to his hand. Five years is far too long to keep count. 

Sylvains hand drifts to his stomach. “All this, just to stick it to Edelgard?”

“I must bring them salvation.” 

“You’re always going on about _salvation_ this and liberation that, but I never know exactly what you’re talking about.”

Dimitri stares. “Do you not see them?”

“Who?” 

How lovely that sort of naivety is, to be completely blind to the nightmare that swallows him every moment, waking or not. Sylvain looks at him with something akin to sorrow. Dimitri considers his thumb in his eye.

“Ghosts only ever want one thing.”

Sylvain smiles ruefully. “A city full of the dead is one way to go about it. Not my speed, really, but don’t let me tell you how to live your life.” 

A city is not enough. The Goddess is an awful selfish creature, leaving man to claw itself out of hell. Dimitri’s nails are shattered to the quick. He could burn the planet to the bone and they would still beg at his feet, such that they are. Sylvain looks out onto the horizon. He pretends that he isn’t the same, but Dimitri can very well guess why he sticks to his back like a burr. 

“I do not like it when you lie.” 

Sylvain looks at him quizzically. “You know I’m not exactly one for a slaughter.”

Dimitri presses into him, grip sharpening at the handle of his axe. Sylvain steps back. “Maybe when you were alive, but I know how the dead act.” 

Sylvains back presses into the rail. His eyebrows furrow. “Is this why you think I’m here? To goad you into this sorta stuff?”

“Why else?” 

“You want me to leave that badly, don’t you?” 

Peace, for once in his life. “All of you.”

_ Salvation!  _ His father cries.

“All right” Sylvain smiles, serene as daylight. He does not belong here, with that look on his face.  _ Forgiveness _ , it whispers.  _ All right, try again. It’s not like I’m gonna get mad or anything.  _

Sylvain kneels. His entrails curl on the ground, bloody ribbons in swathes around his knees. He trails a hand across Dimitri’s, tracing the tension of his knuckles with stained fingertips. Dimitri could devour him whole. 

“You can kill me if you want.” Beneath the slick blood his hand is warm, alive. Paint against his skin. He presses his forehead against Dimitri’s leg, nosing into the taught muscle of his thigh. His other hand circles lightly at the back of his calf. “It’s okay. I’d hate to be a bother.”

Dimitri is wrong. He would choke to death on him. Sylvain, who can make a king want to fall to his knees with a single touch. 

He raises his axe. Sylvain smiles. 

* * *

He finds Sylvain. He always does. 

This time, after the carnage and twisted threads stringing Gronder Field have all but dried. Sylvain cleans his hands in death and keeps them tucked behind his back, pale and subtle and deadly. Dimitri wears gloves of red.

He wishes for a moment that Sylvain were alive just so he could run his hands on his face and arms, trail the blood against his skin until he was just as dirty as the rest of them. 

He wishes for a moment that Sylvain-

The shallow grave is marked only in the upturned dirt and the scrap of wood stuck in it. Even in the dark he knows the crest emblazoned in hasty dagger strokes. Byleth held Felix back by the scruff. He can plead forgiveness later, perhaps offer himself up on a silver platter. It is only fair. 

“Once,” Sylvain begins, voice subdued, “Felix was complaining about something to do with his father. I honestly can’t remember the specifics now, probably about the training he had to do or how Glenn was getting more attention. I don’t really care.”

“I remember getting angry though. Really, truly angry.” He chuckles. “I told him he was a spoiled little brat who didn’t know how good he had it, and he burst into tears and ran away.” 

He tries to imagine Sylvain angry, his eyes ( _ brown, soft, warm, curl up and die in them _ ) narrowed in hate. It would be quite the sight to behold, thunder brewing in droves, hair standing on end before the strike. Sylvain as a child was coarse and pliant all at the same time. Felix hung off him like a saddlebag, most likely because he was about as old as Glenn but carried the interesting exoticism of someone from a place he’d never been. Gautier was much like the field before them. He wondered, sometimes. 

“He talked to me again eventually, but he was always a little on edge.” He continues. “I think I should’ve felt bad. I didn’t.”

“Do you now?” 

He blinks, all pretty and sardonic. “Not really. Awful, right?”

Rodrigue’s body was the heaviest thing on earth. Sylvain is cruel, he is starting to realize. Like the beatific statues that fled the land. Never tangible even when he was alive. 

“See, my father liked to parade me in front of everyone. Every banquet or celebration he would let everyone in attendance poke and prod and have their way with me while he pretended like I was some big accomplishment, and all the while I would see my brother in the corner leering like a dog. He was never allowed to attend.” His voice ends on a wistful note, high and hollow. 

He thinks about little Sylvain, hollow-eyed and tiny, brushed into shapes like sand by whoever passes by. Dimitri’s jaw aches bad enough to want to bite through his cheek. 

“I am sorry.”

Sylvain laughs. “Don’t be. He’s an old bastard, I know. Besides,” he looks back, mouth quirked pleasantly “I don’t like hearing you apologize. It sounds funny.”

“I have much to apologize for.”

“Apologizing because I had the misfortune of having a shit father isn’t the place to start.”

“Even then,” he bows his head. It is the least he can do beyond strapping himself to a chair and flogging himself for eternity. 

Dimitri’s father is a waterlogged page in a book. His features coalesce and blur and swirl until he isn’t quite there. His voice filters through glass. He is a melted candle, and Dimitri sometimes wonders if he will forget him completely. 

He wonders if Rodrigue will taunt him too, surrogate father that he was, and Dimitri’s fate will be to collect ghosts like a rock growing moss. 

He was kind, and patient. He does not want to forget him. He does not want to remember him. 

Sylvain tilts his head back, gilded in the blue light of the moon. He wants him gone, to walk into the fog cloaking the field so Dimitri will not have to contend with him any longer. Even still, his serene expression caught in profile-

It would be a great shame. 

Dimitri kneels at the dirt. If Sylvain were alive, his shoulder would connect with the side of his leg. 

“Do you remember my father?”

“A bit.” 

Dimitri leans. He wants so badly for some semblance of solidity. The warmth of another. If he drifts too far he would topple over. 

( _ It’s too heavy for you! In a few years, myshka, I promise!) _

“Tell me.”

He hears Sylvain think. He imagines him tilting his head, the moonlight sliding down his face like oil. It would be easy enough to gather it in his cupped palms. Take communion from his silhouette. 

“He was big, and loud. He terrified me to be honest. A bit like you.”

Ah, so is that why the others will not look him in the eye? What a funny thing. He should apologize for that as well. Beg for mercy. Throw himself off the ramparts of the castle, when they take it of course. 

“More.”

A pause. “He was blonde.” 

“You are useless.” 

“It’s not like we were the best of friends. I could count the number of times I’ve spoken to him on one hand.” 

“Do you see him?”

Dimitri looks up to find Sylvain looking back at him. In the light, his eyes almost look brown.

“I only see you.”

* * *

The party from Gautier arrives at night. His father shoos him to bed without allowing him to see the guests despite his many, many protests. He remains defiant though, and slips out of his chambers at midnight even if he is utterly exhausted. More than once he thinks of returning to the warmth of his bed and it’s heavy blankets, with how frigid the hallways of the castle get at night. He curls his fingers into each other and warms them with his breath.

Gautier is far away. It is bitterly cold, and there is almost no one inhabiting it. His father tells him stories, some times. Of ice, and caves, and black lakes that are older than Fhirdiad itself. A rugged expanse of nature and so terribly lonely. In his mind he imagines the people there to be colder still, when he pays the land any thought at all. If he thinks for too long he’ll get a phantom chill. 

The guests are completely distinct from the Fhirdiad knights accompanying them. The guards bear livery of red and black and seem to swallow all royal excess surrounding them, imposing and strange. The Margrave is easy enough to identify, taller than even his father and nearly as broad (a sheer impossibility to Dimitri, and suddenly he wants the party to go far, far away.) His braid is a bright red noose that swings at the small of his back, and when he speaks it sounds like stones falling. 

There is another there who is clearly not part of the guard. He is far smaller than any of his companions, slight, yet with an undeniable nobility to his posture. His skin is pale to an almost unsettling degree and stands stark against his long curly hair that shares the same unseemly red hue of the Margrave’s. 

Cold indeed, Dimitri thinks. If he touches the boy he is almost certain he will feel like ice.

His fingers will go blue at this rate. 

The board under his foot squeals as he withdraws and he freezes, completely and utterly terrified that the guards will slaughter him on the spot for the intrusion. They pay him no mind though, and Dimitri thanks the Goddess before he can cause any more trouble until the boy turns. 

Dimitri gapes, feet fixed to the spot. His eyes are a sharp hazel, and Dimitri is in that moment convinced that the boy is some ice wraith come to spirit him away. 

His lips quirk up at the corners, and he waves.

He gapes more. He wonders if his feet have been glued down. He wonders if the boy had frozen him to the floor. Moving seems like an impossibility. He presses his knuckles to his lips and tastes snow.  When he finally finds himself able to walk he bolts away, entirely uncaring of any sounds he makes. The boys’ eyes follow him down the halls and do not leave until he tugs his blankets over his head. 

* * *

Strings of wax decorate the altar, transparently thin strands hanging from candle to candle. Dimitri focuses on the leftmost one, collapsing in on the weight of its softness. The kneeler bites pleasantly at bone. It feels nice to play human once in a while. 

The cathedral is so silent. He repels all life at the hems. No one would think to pray while the mad king is present, even after he laid himself bare at his subjects’ feet. Even Sylvain is quiet, content to cast himself at the side like some forgotten statue, blending into the marble and stone until he is nothing more than the string of wax swaying in the draft. He has been oddly subdued lately. Dimitri misses the tolling of the bell only after it falls silent. 

“May I sit here?” 

Dimitri jerks, neck stiff after being bowed for so long. Mercedes smiles at him, all soft and genuine. It would make sense for her to be the one to breach cathedral grounds. She sees the light in things.

“Mercedes. Yes, of course.” He cringes inwardly at the hoarse quality of his voice, more of a beastly rasp than anything else. Mercedes has the composure to not recoil, simply sitting at his side. 

Not too close, he notices. A good few feet away makes for an easy escape. His shoulders relax. 

“It’s been a while since I sat down to pray” she remarks, voice high and clear were it not for the implication that kept her away. “It feels nice.” 

“That it does.” He cannot do this. Since when had simple conversation become so difficult? His tongue is dead in his mouth. 

She turns to face him, pale eyes crinkled pleasantly. “I admit, I am surprised to see you praying.”

He does not blame her. One does not expect to see a demon attempt any sort of penance. Empty cries on deaf ears. He bows his head. “I suppose it seems odd.” 

“Yes, but not in a bad way. I’m glad to see you here.” 

Dimitri is, not for the first time, overwhelmed with a surge of fondness for Mercedes, so kind and untouched by evil in the dim light of the cathedral. People like her are few and far between, with her strength of conviction even fewer. He does not have much heart to tell her that he was not praying at all. 

“I did not think you believed in the Goddess” she says suddenly, neither accusatory nor indicting. DImitri winces. 

“I… do not want to offend you” he offers. 

“It’s all right. Anyone can believe in whatever they want.” 

“Yes. That is true.” Sylvain flutters in his periphery, settling at the foot of the dais. “I suppose… I was quite the devout believer as a child, as you can probably guess, with the Kingdom so strongly tied to the church.” 

Mercedes nods, urging Dimitri forward on his fumbling path. Curse his tongue, truly. 

“I prayed often, when my father and the knights would ride into battle, when there were skirmishes. I was so wholly convinced that it would strengthen them, or protect them.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “I admit, I do miss that sort of optimism.” 

“During the tragedy I hid and prayed as hard as I could for it to cease, yet all it seemed to do was exacerbate the carnage around me. I could not hear myself speak. When I emerged from my place of safety there was not a soul left that was saved.”

He does not tell her this: That when his father and step-mother and Glenn and everyone he failed to save stayed behind he spent the nights begging  _ someone _ to make it stop,  _ please, make them leave I beg of you I do not want this please please PLEASE-  _

Mercedes’ gaze turns sad, holding him in it with unbearable tenderness. Dimitri chokes on the pity. He bites into himself when he clenches his teeth at night, sometimes. 

“After that I could not bring myself to believe in a merciful Goddess who would allow such things to happen. It was easier if she simply did not exist.” 

“I see...”

“I am terribly sorry” he offers a smile, weak and closed though it is. “This must all sound awful to you.” 

“Not at all” she says simply. “You shouldn’t apologize for what you believe.” 

“Even still…” 

“Nope! I won’t hear it!” she laughs. “Though… I suppose it’s a bit of the opposite for me. It’s comforting to think that everything happens for a reason. But that must sound awful to you, right?” 

It does. It makes him want to scream. His father was buried without his head. He hears, later, that Mercedes had to stitch Sylvain together. His lower half barely held on by a few tendons. When she took the needle and thread in her hands, did she think  _ this happened for a reason?  _

“No. Truly.” he adds. Sylvain would be proud. Perhaps he can ask him later.

They fall into silence. It is not unkind, nor stifling. Not too long ago it was simultaneously his greatest companion and worst enemy. 

He thinks, perhaps, that he would like to take up sewing again.

“Are you praying for anything in particular? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

Sylvain picks at the whorls of the clothed figure of Cethleann ingrained on the altar. Dimitri is suddenly acutely reminded of a bored animal pawing at the wall. His lips quirk. 

“Those we lost” he says, and leaves it at that. 

* * *

His body lies on the shore, limp and pliant against black stone. It is a collapsed pile of flaming wood, the dredged body of an ocean creature. It burns, and burns, and costumes itself. It collapses on its own weight. He hears him laugh, but can’t find his lips. 

He brings little sticks and driftwood to keep him alive. He takes papers and leaves that blow by. He brings him the cloak off his back. He brings others by the scruff. He brings himself. 

He is terrified of flame, but it is not so terrible to burn in his arms. He shuts his eye. Ash is inseparable. The wind takes them away. 

  
  


“Why me?” he yells over the gale and the rush of the waves. Rain plasters his hair to his face until it cannot be picked apart from skin. Sylvain stands perfectly dry. His hands are warm against his face. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” he says, not unkindly. A drop of rain peals down his bottom lip. Dimitri finds himself chasing it. “I couldn’t remember anything. I didn’t know my name. I couldn’t call out.” 

His thumb traces the slope of his eye, scarred shut and entirely hideous. Dimitri cannot bring himself to move. He is chained down at the ankles. Sylvain’s hand is the gentlest thing on earth. 

“The one person who could hear,” he smiles, so softly, “and you didn’t care.”

Dimitri opens his mouth. Sylvain closes it with a touch of his finger. 

“I couldn’t stand it any other way” and he pulls him down. Oblivion clogs his mouth and nose and stings at his eyes. He cannot bring himself to close them, because the red of Sylvain’s hair is visible through the storm. Drowning is a mercy. Drowning is salt in his mouth, and it tastes like blood.

* * *

Edelgard crumbles in on herself, a bulging mass unravelled at the heart. He expected to feel something, all-consuming rapturous joy and the relief at shackles undone. He feels woefully little instead. The dagger is an afterthought that hangs from his collarbone. 

History will not remember her well, he knows. Enbarr is a testament to atrocity, though so is he. 

He is welcomed as a war hero. His compatriots smile warily, though not unkindly. Dedue stands at his side, and Mercedes glasps his hand gently. There would be a promise of grand celebrations to come, yet no one mentions it. Funny, that. 

They will go to Garreg Mach, he supposes, then to Fhirdiad, and then they will crown him or cast him in gold or what they will. 

He would like to sleep. 

When he finally is allowed to retreat to his makeshift chambers after what feels like centuries of speeches and delegation and planning, he is surprised to find it occupied. Sylvain sits like a perfect caricature of indolence on the edge, catlike eyes crooked at the edges in mirth as he waves him in. 

_ He is the guest _ , Dimitri thinks sourly.  _ Is he so arrogant to welcome me to my own room? _

“I thought you would be gone.” He wonders why he feels relieved, now of all times. 

“I’m not that easy to shake, Your Majesty,” he wags a finger. “Congratulations are in order, by the way. I saw what you did.” 

“Did you now?” Dimitri takes a seat beside him. Had Sylvain been corporeal he would have considered their proximity far too close for comfort, but instead it is simply... pleasant.

“I’m glad, you know? I was worried you would have torn her head off with your bare hands, or something along those lines.” 

So was he. Restraint is a virtue he seems to have stumbled upon. 

Sylvain heaves a sigh, leaning back on his arms. The sheets of the bed respond only to Dimitri’s weight, perched precariously on the edge. “War is finally over, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.” 

He laughs at that, high and clear and woefully sardonic. It is infectious. Dimitri chuckles too. 

“I did not think I would either. In all honesty, I was not planning on surviving at all.” He finds himself laughing more, the situation so absurd he cannot stop. Him, the victor! When in every possible outcome he would have died and let someone holier take up the crown. 

He stops, suddenly horribly aware of Sylvain’s gaze, sharp as it is. He looks pensive, and a bit sad as well. 

“I’m glad, you know. That you lived.” Sylvain smiles, a gentle expression entirely uncharacteristic of him. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Dimitri’s hands curl in on themselves. 

“I thought you wanted me dead.”

“Come on, I never said that.” He shakes his head. “I never wanted you to die. It’s not fun, gotta tell you.” 

“You hated me.”

“I did. But…” He furrows his brows, propping his head on his hand. “You changed. It’s weird, but I’m glad you have. Maybe I’m a bit jealous.” 

“Because you are dead,” Dimitri murmurs. 

It is crushing, all at once. He is a corpse in the ground, and will never grow older, never fight, never  _ anything _ . Never again to speak, or laugh, or walk, or love, all so unduly stolen away the moment he was torn in half. Dimitri wishes to reach out, to hold his hand or touch him in any way possible, so sorrowful he is in that moment, Such a precious apparition that he cannot help but curse his past self for wishing it away so fervently.

He does not want him to leave, he thinks, selfish man that he is.

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out,” he smirks. 

He reaches forward then and shuts his eye so he does not have to contend with the sight of his hand phasing through Sylvain’s own, his only senses left in the nondescript scent of the room and a very faint trace of perfume lingering on the sheets. If he leans forward enough he will fall through air. Hopefully he will never land at all. 

“You should get some sleep,” Sylvain murmurs softly. Dimitri tries to imagine the expression on his face. Fantastically rendered, tender and open like the gash in his side. Flowers for the dead that linger on in the stale room. He never looked like that. 

“Goodnight, Dimitri” he says,

He imagines a hand in his hair. 

* * *

_ “You’re Prince Dimitri, right?” he smiles. “I saw you.” _

_ “Huh?”  _

_ “Last night” the boy says patiently. “You were spying on us, weren’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”  _

_ “Oh- yes?” Dimitri stutters. The boys’ eyes aren’t nearly as strange in the daylight. He must have been too sleepy to think straight to imagine such a thing. “I’m sorry about that.” _

_ He laughs. It sounds a bit strange, like someone trying to mimic a bird call. “Like I said, it’s fine. Besides, you’re the prince, aren’t you? You don’t have to apologize for that.”  _

_ “I suppose. Still, it was kind of rude of me.” _

_ He shrugs. “I would have been curious too, with a strange party coming in the middle of the night. You’ve never seen anyone from Gautier though, have you?” _

_ “How could you tell?” _

_ “Cause you’ve been staring at us like we’re a pack of wolves trying to get you. It’s pretty funny.”  _

_ “Hmf” Dimitri crosses his arms and puffs out his chest. The other boy doesn’t seem intimidated in the least. “Well that’s a bit rude of you, making fun of a stranger.”  _

_ “Sorry, sorry. I guess I’ll have to introduce myself, huh?” There’s a bruise high on his cheekbone that flowers an ugly green. He must stare too much, because the boys’ expression stutters for a moment before returning to a smile.  _

_ “My name is-” _

* * *

He wakes to light streaming through the window, pleasantly warm. His mind is clear. Practically a miracle, he thinks as he stretches. The wound in his shoulder burns despite the efforts of Mercedes and the other healers the day prior. He can make peace with it. He will have no other choice. 

He moves to the window. The curtains are lace. Taking a better look around the room in the light reveals that most of the decoration is garishly floral, right down to the heavy velvet carpeting. It is almost dizzying. Dimitri shakes his head, and turns his gaze through the glass. The window affords him a fairly decent view of the inner courtyard, and he spends awhile watching the comings and goings of Kingdom soldiers and Imperial servants scurrying to and fro.

The yard was left mostly unscathed from the ravages of battle. He finds himself feeling glad for it. The architecture in Enbarr is so completely unlike Fhirdiad, or anything in Fhaerghus for that matter. It is alien in its beauty, and it is saddening that something so terrible as war was forced to mar it so.

He dresses, all the while waiting for something. Some snarky comment or joke to break the stagnant air. He fixes the clasp of his cloak without incident, and wonders. 

Delegations are agonizingly slow. Half of waging war seems to be composed of bureaucracy and stacks of papers, and he has neither the charm nor tact to fumble his way through. Byleth has even less than him, and together they make quite the pair. Some king he is, truly, choking on his own tongue like this. His periphery remains empty. 

It remains empty for the rest of the day, despite the people surrounding him. The nondescript faces of nobles and officials he does not know, the gently smiling visage of Mercedes and Dedue’s steady presence, Byleth and Annette and even a glimpse of Felix’s ever-present scowl, and yet- 

He looks around corners and in alcoves. He wanders the halls and only turns back when his feet take him near the throne room. He moves curtains, opens doors, pries into rooms he has no business setting foot in. He considers going to the gardens and digging through the plants and lifting rocks. There is no trace left to be seen. 

It is only when he settles in the room for the night, amongst all the garish decor and the faint scent of dried roses, does he realize.

It is incredibly silent.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @mumagi for undue blathering


End file.
